Ultimo
by Hiroya-chan
Summary: The last few days they could have treasured more. 1827.


Uhh…ohkaye. This isn't exactly my second/third/fourth/fifth/etc. ficcy, but one of the more recent ones. :O

I'm not really a 1827 shipper – it's a kind of on/off fetish. This was a request by someone on LJ. I hope you like it! Reviews are welcomed with open arms. X3

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Title: _Ultimo_

Rated: _T_

Pairing: _1827_

Word Count: _1460_

Summary: _The last few days they could have treasured more. 1827._

If Hibari Kyouya is actually walking down the long, winding corridors of the Vongola headquarters, there is always a very valid reason. Yamamoto thinks that if Hibari does not have to provide detailed reports every now and then about his research on the rings and boxes, and various other important missions accomplished, there will probably be a blissful lack of awareness, should he ever end up lying dead in a ditch somewhere (however highly impossible that might be – but you get the point).

One of Hibari Kyouya's more noticeable traits is his tendency to publicise his trips to the Vongola headquarters. He will come striding through the large, swinging double doors in broad daylight, with Kusakabe Tetsuya trailing him from a respectful six metres behind. By making known his presence, he is able to "enforce discipline". (It works, though – the entire establishment retreats into tomblike silence when the Cloud Guardian is around; all the subordinates learnt quickly about Hibari's incorrigible habit of whimsically smashing his tonfa into the nose, face, limb, torso, etc. of anyone who caused the smallest disturbance – "_I'll bite you to death_" – _wham_, and blinding white light.)

For now, the day is more or less over, and night has settled, still and heavy, the aftermath of an intense family argument about the destruction of rings - ignited by Tsuna, but there is logic in his sudden proposal. A skirmish occurred in the morning, and it took every last Mist ring to conceal their location from the Millefiore. Regrettably, the bodies are still out there, the blood and rot emitting a stale, mephitic stench that spreads through the building. The corridors are deserted – almost everyone retired to their rooms after the argument simmered down.

Eavesdropping is not Yamamoto's style, but he cannot help but feel the tiniest bit of suspicion when he sees Hibari Kyouya walking quietly towards Tsuna's room. The latter seems to be awake; mellow yellowish-orange spills through the keyhole.

When Hibari has entered the room, Yamamoto stealthily makes his way to the door, left slightly ajar, as Hibari went in without bothering to shut it properly.

"Hibari-san."

Tsuna's voice is strained, hoarse, tired – a result of the morning's skirmish, and the incensed quarreling.

Yamamoto presses his back against the wall, his head inclined towards the gap. He stands there, and listens, watching the scene with one eye.

"I heard about the rings."

"You told me you were coming on Friday," Tsuna says abstractly, his voice a barely audible whisper. "What happened?"

Hibari's gaze wanders to the open window. His awkward silence stretches, his steel-grey eyes strangely contemplative. Tsuna looks at him passively.

"Yamamoto Takeshi's father is dead," he says bitterly, at last.

And Yamamoto thinks that he can hear the world crashing down around him, loud, thunderous, and heartbreaking. His breath hitches, his eyes are wide, his hands are shaking. He can hear his heartbeat hasten, the adrenaline is rushing, cold and fast in his veins. There is a tight, painful knot in his chest, and he wonders why – "_why is this…?_" and how – "_I shouldn't have left him alone in Japan_", but – it's too _late_.

"W…what?" Tsuna splutters.

"The Foundation member appointed to take responsibility of protecting the man was killed," Hibari replies detachedly. His eyes, grey glazed with hues of red and orange in the soft lamplight, remain hard and unwavering. "The body can be flown to Italy, if Yamamoto Takeshi wishes."

Tsuna falls back onto his chair, his eyes soft honey-brown, and glistening brightly with salty, wobbly drops of liquid threatening to fall. He presses a hand to his mouth, the other a clenched fist on the armrest. His voice is low, cracking,

"By the Millefiore?"

"The Black Spell," Hibari says matter-of-factly. And he prompts, "The rings, Sawada Tsunayoshi. I hear you plan to have them destroyed."

Choking on his tears, and restraining his sobs, Yamamoto, on the inside, laughs humorlessly at Hibari's ever-unchanging lack of human empathy, the ease of which he handled death like a trivial, passing matter.

"I'm trying to make sure there are repercussions with our defeat," Tsuna says scratchily, rubbing his raw eyes.

Hibari's discontent is all-too evident. "You make it sound as if we have already lost."

With the sheer audacity Tsuna rarely displays (especially not in front of _Hibari_), the brown-haired young man glares sharply at his Cloud Guardian, and spits, "This war has become, frankly – _one-sided_."

"It will be one-sided, and unsalvageable if we destroy the only weapons that are keeping our wrecked boat afloat," Hibari replies, with equal acidity.

The atmosphere is thick with acrimony, and Yamamoto wonders if apocalypse is approaching, because honestly – _how bad can one day get?_ Tsuna and Hibari have their disagreements, but unlike his relationship with every other person, Hibari has faint mutual understanding with Tsuna that yes, he belongs to Vongola, and yes, he will listen to the boss as long as his requests are reasonable.

"They won't stop killing us even if we destroy what they want," Hibari says coldly. "It's sordid reality, _herbivore_."

Yamamoto flinches. He has not heard _that_ in almost a decade. More specifically, he has not heard Hibari call Tsuna _that_ in almost a decade.

And Tsuna is on his feet in mere seconds, his hand raised.

_Smack._

Hibari's head is snapped to the left, his right cheek blemished with dark, raw red. Tsuna has hit him with no reservations. The Cloud Guardian's expression is so emotionless to the point of being strangely passive. Yamamoto knows his pair of tonfa are doubtlessly somewhere on his person, but Hibari makes no effort to draw them with the promise of swift, merciless death.

"I…"

Tsuna's smaller frame is trembling, his hand unsteady in midair. His voice is not raged; it is barely above a whisper, urgent, and despairing.

"I'm doing the only thing I can," he croaks, "If any of you die, I...if _you_ die…Hibari-san, I…"

Wordlessly, Hibari takes a step forward, his slender arms circling Tsuna's waist, fingers curling into the expensive material of Tsuna's suit. He presses his forehead against the crook of Tsuna's shoulder. There is perfect silence, and Yamamoto, outside the room, valiantly holds back a gasp; this is the first time he has seen Hibari Kyouya look even a tad bit _vulnerable_.

"We," Hibari says quietly, his voice a lot softer, gentler, "are not going to die."

He pulls back a little, long, pale-white fingers grasping the sides of Tsuna's face. He bends down, easing Tsuna's face closer, and with tenderness unbecoming of such a cold, seemingly heartless man, he kisses the short brunette, lightly, warmly.

"Destroy the rings," he says.

Hibari is at the centre of the fight when it comes to ensuring the rings are destroyed completely. He is there at the very frontlines, holding back the expected Millefiore interference. He truly fights the hardest he has ever done.

And he is standing in the ballroom now – this beautiful, elegant place originally built for the civilised art of dance and socialising is now drenched in the coppery blood of hundreds, both Millefiore and Vongola alike. The pungent smell assaults his olfactory system unpleasantly. Wide-eyed, open-mouthed corpses stare eerily at him from the ground, dizzying him, clouding his already dazed, foggy mind. He loses the strength in his fingers, the single remaining tonfa dropping onto the marble floor with an echoing clatter. He is swaying on his feet, toppling over, but manages to catch himself by grabbing onto a conveniently situated table.

He breathes; short, forceful breaths. He thinks his lungs are drowning in fluid, his windpipe constricting to a thin, thin straw. The pain is cutting, intolerable. He chokes, coughs, and scrunches his eyes in mind-numbing agony.

He cannot support himself on the table for long, however. A minute later, he crumples to the ground, blood gushing profusely from three major wounds, his face and hair dripping with crimson liquid, and his creamy-white hands marred beyond recognition.

When he wakes up again, he is lying in a cot in the infirmary of their Namimori base. Yamamoto is seated on a chair next to him, his shoulders hunched in defeat.

"Hibari," he smiles weakly – not that dazzling, carefree smile Hibari has undesirably become so used to.

"What happened? How long have I been out?" he demands immediately, ignoring how raspy, and utterly herbivore-level weak he sounds.

"Hibari," Yamamoto says, his voice wrecked with tremors. "Hibari, he…"

"Herbivore, tell me what happened," Hibari snarls, grabbing the Rain Guardian's collar, and jerking the other man closer. "Where is Sawada Tsunayoshi?"

And Yamamoto Takeshi cries, and he does not quite know how to stop, but in between the heart-wrenching sobs, and choking, and incessant tears, he manages to tell Hibari that Sawada Tsunayoshi is dead, and gone, and never coming back.


End file.
